


Challenging Encounters with the Locals

by spectral_musette



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 23:39:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15874065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectral_musette/pseuds/spectral_musette
Summary: Padawan Caleb Dume practices compassion in action at a mining outpost in the Outer Rim.(Featuring Master Billaba, Commander Grey, Clone OCs, and civilian OCs. Mild warning for discussions of prostitution, indentured servitude, and some abusive language.)





	Challenging Encounters with the Locals

            When the bombing started, everyone took refuge in the sturdiest building in the vicinity. It might have been a bunker once, but it had been converted into a tavern more recently. The patrons mostly crowded around the bar. The outpost miners were a rough lot, eyeing the group of soliders with hard, wary eyes. Caleb could sense their fear as the explosions sent shudders through the building, but they barely showed it, hunched over their drinks to keep the dust drifting down from the ceiling out of them.

            It was a few moments before he even noticed the girl curled up under the table, trembling with quiet sobs.

            Grey was unpacking rations while a few other men went to the bar to bargain for more food, so Caleb went to check on her, crouching down beside the table. “Girl” was relative – she was perhaps as old as twenty standard, or no more than a few years older than he was. It was difficult to tell.

            “Excuse me, Miss? I just wanted to tell you that we turned on our shield generator and set the perimeter around the building. I know the tremors are disturbing. But we scanned the structure, and Lt. Stack, he’s our engineer, he’s very sure it’ll hold.”

            The girl uncurled a little, peering up at him with round violet eyes in a tear-streaked face, and he smiled at her. She was just the same shade of blue as Master Secura. Judging from her short lekku, barely brushing her shoulders, she was either younger than she looked or perhaps half-blood Twi’lek. She was also thin, and he sensed her hunger under the more immediate fear of the bombing, like an old familiar afterthought.

            “ _We’re here to make sure you’re safe_ ,” he told her in _ryl_ , one of the practiced phrases he’d learned in most languages commonly spoken in the Rim when he prepared to serve with the GAR.

            “I’m sorry. I don’t remember much _ryl_ ,” she told him in a small voice, wiping at her cheeks with a trembling hand.

            “That’s all right,” he soothed. “I was just…”

            “Commander Dume!” Sgt. Tat called sharply, and Caleb looked up to see the man gesture him back to the group of soldiers. He grimaced a little, but stood to obey the summons, leaving the girl with a reassuring smile.

            “Leave the girl be, Caleb,” Tat said in a low voice as he approached the table.

            “Why? She’s frightened. I was just trying to reassure her.”

            He swore softly, his heavily tattooed face twisting into a frown. “These Jedi kids are worse than Shinies,” he muttered. “She’s no kind of girl for you to be talking to, Caleb, that’s all.”

            “You just laid eyes on her 5 seconds ago, how could you possibly know anything about her?”

            “He means,” Grey clarified, “that most Twi girls trafficked around the Rim end up as sex workers. And it makes him uncomfortable to see an innocent kid trying to befriend a prostitute.”

            Caleb closed his mouth, jaw snapping shut sharply as he felt a powerful surge of righteous indignation. Not really directed at Tat, whose protective impulses were at least understandable, if misguided. But at the miners, and at the society that would treat sentients like chattel.

            “I’m asking her to eat with us,” he announced.

            “ _Ca_ leb,” Tat protested.

            “Let the Commander do as he sees fit,” Grey scolded softly.

            “What’s the General gonna think?” Tat huffed, rubbing his forehead.

            “Master Billaba would not do any differently,” Caleb told him.

            Caleb strode back to the table, kneeling on the dirty floor.

            “Miss? Would you like to come and eat with us? We only have some field rations, but you’re welcome to join us.”

            “With all those soldiers?” The girl physically recoiled, bumping against the table leg. “Do I have to?”

            “Of course not,” Caleb replied quickly, blinking. He supposed the troops would be intimidating to battle droids or Separatists, but it hadn’t occurred to him that civilians might be frightened of the GAR. “I just thought you might be hungry.”

            “Not hungry enough,” she muttered, bringing her knees tight against her chest.

            Quiet, Caleb stood and went back to Grey’s table to collect some rations.

            “Little Twi scared of us?”

            “Yes,” Caleb confirmed sadly.

            “You tell her none of these boys are gonna lay a finger on her, cause they’ll have you, me, and the General to answer to.”

            Caleb returned to the girl’s hiding place.

            “I heard,” she said, before he could speak.

            He placed a packet of stew on the floor beside her, along with a plastisteel spoon.

            “What do I have to do for it?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

            “Nothing. I promise. It’s a present.”

            She opened the packet and dug the spoon into the contents, careful not to spill despite her shaking hands.

            “I’m Caleb,” he told her.

            “I heard that too.”

            “What’s your name?”

            “Nyla,” she answered.

            “An honor to meet you, Nyla.” He put his hands together and made as respectful a bow as he could while sitting on the floor.

            She laughed softly. “I’ve never met a Jedi before.”

            “I’m just a padawan learner,” he said modestly.

            “Where’s your master?”

            “She’ll be here soon.”

            “Nyla. Hey! Stop sniveling, girl, and get up here and serve these drinks,” the man behind the bar barked sharply, glowering at the two young people.

            “But I was…” she started to protest.

            “Don’t you answer back,” he snarled, “or you’re out on the street.”

            She pressed the half-finished stew packet into Caleb’s hands and stood, shoulders hunched as she scurried to the bar.

            Another Twi’lek woman emerged from the back room. She was a soft, rosy pink color, wearing a short, clinging dress of almost the same shade. Her cap winked and jingled with glass and metal beads, and makeup artfully accentuated her pretty features. She paused to confer with the barman, and Caleb could just make out their low voices.

            “Soldier-boys. They have credits?”

            “They bought some food, anyway.”

            “Hm. Handsome lot, if a bit uh… uniform.”

            “No freebies, Sali.”

            “Ain’t my fault I got a weakness for tall dark and handsome,” she whined.

            Sali started to move towards the troops, but stopped in front of Nyla, who was carrying a heavy tray of empty glasses towards what seemed to be the kitchen.

            “Oh, _Nyla_ ,” she sighed, blocking the younger girl’s path. “Look at you. You’re a grimy mess. How many times have I told you stand up straight? Do you think you’re going to make a _single_ credit if you can’t command attention and admiration?”

            “I’m sorry, Sali. I just…. I was…”

            “No _excuses_ , Nyla. You know I’m trying to help you. Now wash your face and for _pity’s_ sake, _stop slouching_.”

            After Nyla scurried away, Sali, astutely observing Grey’s position of authority, sidled up to him as he was doling out rations.

            “Join me for a drink, soldier?”

            “We don’t drink on duty, Miss,” he informed her coolly.

            “Well. When do you go _off_ duty, then?”

            “Hopefully when we get off this miserable rock. No offense.”

            “None taken. It ain’t much to look at, that’s for sure. Doesn’t mean folks here don’t know how to have a good time, though.”

            “Miss. We’re not here to carouse. We’re here to make sure the Separatists don’t wipe out your outpost and make off with your mineral reserves.”

            “ _Everybody_ has to relax between battles _now_ and then, don’t they?”

            “Lady,” Tat interjected, leaning on the table, “you think there aren’t business girls on Coruscant?”

            “But, you aren’t _on_ Coruscant, soldier,” she countered, lip curling into a slight snarl.

            “Miss,” Grey said, tone conciliatory, if weary, “after the bombing subsides, _if_ the structure holds, some of the men will have off-duty hours and will be free to seek recreation until our transport arrives. It’s none of _my_ business how they choose to spend their pay, but they _will_ have to inform the General of their whereabouts. Until such time I would appreciate it if you would leave them to their meal.”

            Thoroughly rebuffed, Sali sulked back to the bar.

            Caleb watched Nyla slink back towards her hiding spot, keeping to the shadows and avoiding the eyes of Sali and the barman. He stepped back into the shadows to meet her, offering the packet of stew.

            “It’s gotten a little cold, I’m sorry to say.”

            “I don’t mind,” she said, shaking her head and setting her lekku bouncing as she reached for it.

            “Can I tell you something about Miss Sali,” he asked in a low voice, leaning close.

            “What do you mean?” Nyla looked up. She had obediently scrubbed her face, but her eyes were red and puffy from crying.

            “She’s afraid. She thinks that in a few years everyone will look at you and no one will care about her. She thinks you’re prettier than she is, or you will be, but she doesn’t want you to know it. She wants you to feel like you owe her, so you’ll be kind to her when no one else will. She’s very lonely.”

            Nyla swallowed, her eyes on the stew.

            “I don’t know if I believe that.”

            “It’s true,” Caleb told her.

            “You… you read her mind?” she concluded, dropping her voice to a whisper.

            “I… well, it was just… plain. When she spoke to you, or looked at you, I just knew.”

            Nyla finished her stew in a few heaping spoonfuls, chewing fast.

            “Nyla! Hey! Where did that lazy girl get to?”

            Nyla started, slinking back into the shadows and hurriedly wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

            Grey approached the bar, hands resting lightly on his belt.

            “You know, slavery is illegal in the Republic,” he remarked, voice deceptively pleasant.

            “Nyla ain’t no slave, soldier-boy,” the barman argued. “She’s just a lazy good-for-nothing girl I let work here to pay off the bundle of credits she owes me.”

            “What could that little girl owe you for?”

            “Room, board, medicine…” the barman listed, tallying up the items on his thick fingers.

            “How much?” Grey asked.

            “What’s it to you?”

            “If you don’t know the total, how do you know she hasn’t paid it off already?”

            “I didn’t say I didn’t know it. Come on, soldier-boy, what’s the deal?” he continued, his expression turning sly. “Sali ain’t to your taste? We can make an arrangement. Don’t have to buy the whole nerf just because you want a cup of milk, if you know what I mean.”

            “You’re going to want to stop talking,” Grey interrupted coldly, putting on hand on the edge of the bar and leaning forward ominously.

            “Pretty rich, you coming here to lecture us about the Republic’s slavery laws,” a patron at the bar piped in with a sneer. “What do you think _you_ are, clone?”

            “A pensioned member of the Grand Army of the Republic,” Grey replied.

            “And how many of those pensions do you think the Senate is actually gonna pay up, hm? Just more lies and double talk and back dealing from the Senate, as _always._ ”

            “Maybe you’d like to try your luck with the Separatists,” Grey rumbled.

            “Hey, these quarters are a little close for politics, don’t you think?” Sali piped in. “Nyla, honey, let’s show them that dance I’ve been teaching you. All right, boys?”

            The explosions had quieted by the time the Twi’lek girls climbed onto the table and the barman turned on some music with a loud, thumping beat.

            Caleb walked back to sit with the troops. Tat took hold of Caleb's chair to turn it firmly away from girls and tugged up his hood for good measure.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            They met up with Master Billaba and the rest of the unit at the edge of the mining settlement. The market stalls and several ramshackle structures had been demolished, but most of the buildings were still standing, and the ore refinery stood untouched.

            “Managed to get the shield up around it,” Master Billaba was explaining to Grey as Caleb pushed forward through the ranks. “The starfighters finally arrived, and the Separatists retreated from the system. Victory seems like an overstatement, but we held out with nothing worse than some property damage and minor injuries to our boys and the civilian population.”

            She turned to Caleb, and he made a deep bow.

            “Master.”

            He felt her hand gently cup his cheek, and he straightened.

            “Caleb. What’s wrong, padawan?” she asked softly, dark eyes warm and wise.

            Caleb felt a swell of affection for his Master, the calm eye in the storm of the war. She was serene and insightful, brave and selfless, everything he could ever hope to be as a Jedi, and she would set things right.

            As his tongue was tied with emotion, Grey supplied the explanation. “We had some … challenging encounters with the locals.”

            “Was anyone hurt?” Master Billaba asked, alarmed, placing one hand on Caleb’s shoulder and another on Grey’s to steer them aside from the group, to talk in private.

            “Nothing like that, General.”

            “We met a girl who was being mistreated,” Caleb told her.

            “A young Twi’lek woman who was the serving girl and skivvy at the tavern.” Grey gestured back at the building with a jerk of his head.

            “Mistreated how?” Master Billaba asked, running a hand comfortingly over Caleb’s short hair.

            “Verbally. Very likely kept in indentured servitude. The Barkeeper implied she’d be available for …”

            “I see,” Depa interjected, sparing Grey the awkward conclusion to that sentence. “How old was this girl?”

            “Legal,” Grey replied grimly. “Just.”

            “Thank you, Grey,” Master Billaba said, squeezing his hand as she curled an arm around Caleb’s shoulders.

            He nodded and withdrew quietly, leaving Master and Padawan alone.

            “Master,” he said, and she wrapped him up in her arms.

            _His_ Master. Not a crechemaster with a dozen other younglings to wrangle, who responded to expressions of affection or demands for attention with tired tolerance. But his Master, the most wonderful Master in the whole galaxy, who fielded his barrage of questions with quiet patience, who encouraged him, praised him, gently corrected him, even hugged him when he needed it.

            A quiet voice in the back of his mind whispered _attachment_ , but he ignored it determinedly.

            She pulled back, placing her hands on his shoulders.

            “Your compassion is the truest expression of the Jedi way, Caleb. I hope you never let it grow dull. But you will see much injustice in your life, I fear, my apprentice.”

            “What good is compassion if I don’t help people?”

            “It’s good for your spirit. But once you take it inward, let it flow out again in action. Let’s think about how we can help your friend.”

            “Credits?” he suggested uncertainly.

            “Probably necessary,” she agreed. “But more than that, I think she will need courage to change her circumstances. Maybe you can inspire that in her, Caleb.”

            He ran a hand over his hair. “She isn’t scared of me, at least.”

            “I met the director of Sentient Resources at the refinery when we were securing the shield. She seemed like a good person. If I spoke to her, I believe she would give your friend a job. It would be hard work, but the pay would be better, I think, and she would be treated with respect and dignity. What’s her name?”

            “Nyla. I don’t know her surname.”

            “That should be good enough.”

            “General.” Grey stood a few steps aside, waiting for Master Billaba to acknowledge him.

            “Yes, Grey?”

            He stepped forward and handed Caleb a satchel jingling with credit chips.

            “For the little Twi, from the boys,” he explained. “From _some_ of the boys,” he amended, with a little disgruntled frown.

            “That’s very generous, Grey,” Master Billaba complimented.

            He shrugged. “I don’t know if it’ll be enough to pay her supposed debt, but it’s something anyway.”

            “It will probably change her life. Or save it,” Master Billaba told him solemnly, and he ducked his head, shy from her praise.

            “Should I take it to her now?” Caleb tucked the satchel into the inner pocket of his robe.

            Master Billaba nodded. “I’ll go back to the refinery to make the arrangements for her new job.” She touched his cheek lightly. “Be careful, and call for help if you need it.”

            Grey frowned, his dark brows knitted together. “Make sure you give it right to her. I trust that barman like I trust a hungry nexu.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Caleb climbed over the broken slabs of duracrete that used to be the road.

            “Hey, Commander! Where you going?” Two troopers pulled off their helmets as they approached.

            “Back to the tavern,” he answered.

            Sgt. Tat glowered at him. “The General know where you are?”

            “Of course,” Caleb answered.

            He shrugged. “We’re going to… smooth things over with the locals.”

            “It’s okay, Sarge. I’m sure if I was older and didn’t have morals, I’d probably want to have sex with Miss Sali too.”

            “ _Ca_ leb,” the trooper complained, while Corporal Sketch let out a strangled chortle. “You can’t just _say_ things like that!”

            “Well, don’t you?”

            “I was going to ask her to pose, actually,” Sketch clarified, lifting his small case of pastels and a roll of poster paper. Sketch had earned his name as a notorious source of pin-up art for his brothers.

            “I don’t see why you can’t just use the holonet like you always do,” Tat complained.

            “My book says you should practice drawing from life,” Sketch argued. “Besides, I’ll buy you a drink.”

            “I wonder if those miners know how to play sabacc.”

            “Everybody knows how to play sabacc.”

            Caleb fell back a little, watching the brothers make their way back into the tavern through the front entrance. He circled around the building, finding, as he had hoped, the kitchen door, flung open to the night for additional ventilation. He peered in furtively, catching sight of Nyla leaning over a basin heaped with dirty glasses and soap bubbles. He stepped into the light, and she jumped.

            “Oh. Caleb.” She let out a breath, shoulders slumping. “I can’t talk with you now. I have to get these glasses back out to the bar.”

            “Let me help,” he said, shrugging out of his robe and rolling up the sleeves of his tunic.

            With four busy hands, the tray rapidly filled with clean glasses.

            “That’s about all I can carry,” Nyla said.  “Be right back to finish.”

            Caleb kept working and had nearly finished the job when Nyla returned. She smiled a shy little smile, and then flicked a bit of the soap bubbles at him.

            As seemed to happen whenever Caleb was on kitchen duty in the Temple, matters devolved into giggling and a soap fight.

            “Nyla,” Caleb finally said, drying his hands, shaking soap out of his hair, and then reaching for his robe. “The barman told Commander Grey that you owe him some credits. Is that true?”

            She nodded, her face falling. “I rent the little room by Sali’s. And last winter I was really sick, and he paid to rent the med droid for me.”

            “Is this enough,” he asked, opening the satchel and showing her the contents.

            Nyla stared at the credit chips.

            “What do I…”

            “Please don’t ask that,” Caleb said, pressing the satchel into her hands.

            “What good does it do?” she demanded, standing very still, hands on the satchel trembling slightly. “I guess I could start saving credits, but I don’t have anywhere else to _go_.”

            “My Master is going to find you a job in the refinery, if you want it.”

            For a moment, she just stared at him. “Why do you _care_ about me?” she asked, tears welling up.

            Caleb shrugged one shoulder and raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I just do.”

            “You know, I used to read a lot of sappy holonovels about dashing Jedi knights coming to rescue people. I used to pretend that… Well.” She smiled at him through her tears, shy and sweet. “You’re a little younger than I imagined, but…” she leaned forward, pressing a kiss onto his cheek, “you’ll do.”  

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that the events of The Last Padawan comic don’t leave much leeway for extra campaigns, but if you can allow a little more breathing room in the timeline, this could be canon compliant. If not, consider it a slight AU.


End file.
